


Das Rote Dreieck

by Prince_of_Elsinore



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Concentration Camps, Dubious Consent, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Nazis, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, World War II, no actual rape though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know where you are with triangles.  And you know you’re not going anywhere."  One is a political prisoner at Sachsenhausen concentration camp.  The other is a camp administrator.  One year after they meet, their positions have changed considerably.  [DISCONTINUED]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've been feeling such writer's block recently, I forced myself on a whim to start writing this old idea. I'm posting it in installations every day on my tumblr, and will update here once I get a substantial enough chunk. Seeing as I'm treating this as a sort of writing exercise to get me back in the groove, don't expect the most polished work.

_August, 1944_

Thirst. Hunger. Pain.

The three senses. The three pillars of existence.

Together, they form a perfect triangle. Each side leaning on the other, each supporting the other, connecting in perfect, sharp points.

They say a circle is the perfect shape, but surely they’ve forgotten about the triangle. A circle is unsteady; just a nudge will set it rolling, and an object, once in motion, can only be stopped by an equal external force. Inertia.

But the triangle—it is perfectly balanced, perfectly stable. The most structurally sound of all geometric shapes. An equilateral triangle is so much more satisfying, so sure of itself and what it stands for.

You know where you are with triangles.

And you know you’re not going anywhere.

Thirst. Hunger. Pain.

Repeat.

…

His throat was parched. So parched he could barely stand to swallow the dry rock they tried to pass off as bread. It was only the void of his belly that forced him to squeeze it down the sandpaper tube of his throat. And then the rock bread only reminded his stomach how discontent it was, how much more it needed.

It was a hot day, and his back was beyond the point of sore. It was the constant, gut-wrenching sensation of a knife being stuck in his spine and twisted with every move.

Lift. Carry. Set down.

Repeat.

Everything comes in threes.

I have to get myself a job in the kitchens. Like Feliks. That sly bastard. Left me out here to rot in the sun till the vultures come to strip my pitiful flesh off my ribs—

The whistle sounded.

Back to work.

…

It was red. The triangle, that is.

The triangle was everything. A brand. A badge. An identity.

More like a death sentence.

The red stood out starkly against the white and blue of the uniform. Against the dusty gray-brown of the earth (no grass, never any grass here).

Red as the bricks that filled his vision each waking moment. Red as his eyes as they caught the light when he wiped the sweat from his brow. Red as blood.

Like that blood he’d seen spattered by the fence a few days ago. Someone had been standing too close. Idiot had gotten himself killed. The thirsty earth sucked it up eagerly, you couldn’t see it anymore. But it was still there. Blood was in the ground, under their feet. In the water they drank and the food they ate. He could smell it, clinging to his nostrils with every breath.

Especially over near the shoe factory, by the buildings you hoped never to go to. Especially when all those Soviet POWs were being “processed.” They looked so pitiful. What were they doing all the way out here, so far from their farms and families.

They saw my triangle. And they didn’t love me for it. Ironic; the Kapo never misses a chance to call me a dirty Bolshevik.

Because it’s red, my triangle. Red as the fire that burnt up all those Russian farm boys. Then it smelled like burning meat.

…

“You.”

The eyes he met were blue. Such a pure, cold blue it made his blood boil.

“Sir.”

“You worked as a tailor?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. I need someone to fix some uniforms. You’ll report to me tomorrow.”

“Sir, I’m sure I know someone else who could do a better job at that. I was only an apprentice, sir.”

Why was he saying that? This was the cushy job he needed. But he didn’t want to go with that man and his ice-eyes.

A blond brow arched.

“So eager to get back to the brickworks?”

“I’m only concerned about the quality of your uniforms, sir.”

“How very considerate.”

He could feel the chill of the eyes scrutinizing him.

“You’ll report to me tomorrow.”

…

_August, 1945_

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I could say the same of you.”

He stared into the ice-eyes. Like plunging into the freezing sea.

A sneer marred the perfect lips beneath them.

“You let yourself get caught.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“Thought it’d make you glad.”

“Who says I’m not?”

He took in the sight before him. No longer clean-cut, all straight lines and creases. No longer jet-black to accent the gold and blue. Yet he could tell the lines of the body were just as rigid, just as stern, beneath the shapeless gray cloth he now wore. He wondered if, looking out with those cold blue eyes, he saw everything as it had been before, and himself still as master of the place.

He felt sorry for him.

The ice narrowed to slits. He’d seen the pity.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered. “This is your chance to lord it over me, so take it, you fool.”

“Lord?” He smiled ruefully. “In case you missed it, we have new lords now. And I’m not one of them. They look at me, they look at you, and all they see is the same fascist filth. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

A roll of blue eyes. “You should learn to take your victories where you can—the small as well as the large.”

A grin spread wide. “Does that mean you surrender?”

…

_August, 1944_

The cloth was slippery under his fingers. He liked the feel of it.

But there was no time to think about that. Obersturmführer Beilschmit had given him one hour to finish work on two jackets.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d only been an apprentice.

And it was so damn hard to keep the cloth in place when it kept sliding around like that, slithering like some great snake draped over the sewing table.

Yes, it was like snake skin.

…

Impassive blue eyes surveyed his work. 

Sweat beaded on his forehead. One sleeve. Two sleeves. Three sleeves. Four sleeves—

A strong hand snatched the seam ripper from the table. With a flick of the wrist, his work was undone.

“Sloppy. Do it again.”

…

_September, 1944_

“Weill, I’ll be needing you again. The formal uniform this time.”

…

“Don’t just stand there, Weill. Make yourself useful. Tidy up the living room. My man’s left it a mess again, incompetent oaf.”

…

“You’re off the Klinkenwerk, Weill. You’ll report to me daily. I was forced to let my last man go; I do hope you’ll do a better job than him.”

…

“A family of Prussian Junkers? I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true, sir. My mother came from the Von Braun family. Weill is my father’s name.”

The Obersturmführer smirked. “So what were you doing as a tailor’s apprentice if you’ve got a cushy little estate in the East waiting for you? Or—” he eyed the triangle, blazing red, with icy contempt—“was it beneath your high ideals to accept your family’s legacy?”

He did not rise to the bait. “The title and estate were passed down another branch of the family, sir. They didn’t approve of my parents’ marriage.”

“No, I should think not.” The officer brought his glass to his lips. A sip of golden liquid. “So you’re Aryan then?”

Fiery eyes ventured up to meet ice. “There’s quite a bit of Polish blood in the Von Braun line, sir.”

Another sip. A cool, steady gaze. “Mm, shame.”

…

_October, 1944_

“Weill? …Weill!”

His eyes snapped open. He stared in dismay at the stack of papers remaining next to the typewriter.

He’d face the consequences of his nodding off later.

He stumbled to his feet, darted out of the study and to the entryway where the officer stood with a peeved look on his face.

“Didn’t you hear me come in?”

Always, that sheen of cultivated civility barely restraining a seething temper beneath. Like the ice might crack at any moment, and with a terrible roar crumble into the tempestuous sea.

He would rather that the ice-man stay frozen, intact.

“Excuse me, sir. I was working, sir.”

The arched brow. It looked threatening, but he knew by now that it was a regular occurrence; a warning, but not dangerous in itself.

“I wasn’t aware the typewriter was so loud, nor you so hard of hearing.”

The ice in that gaze put heat in his cheeks, thickened his tongue in his mouth. But he was saved from answering.

“Well, do I look like I want to stand here all evening in my coat and boots?”

“No sir, sorry sir.”

“Ah—what have I said about that word?”

He faltered.

“…I had best not have cause to apologize, sir.”

“Exactly.”

He rushed to attend to his routine duties.

Take his coat. Hang it on the rack, with the shoulder seams aligned just so. Place the cap on the shelf above.

Follow him to the living room. Prepare his cigar. Pour the scotch.

Kneel. Ease off the first boot. Then the second.

If the officer placed a foot in his lap—tonight he did—rub it. Work his thumbs into the balls of the feet. Continue until the tension had gone from his rigid body, as far as that was possible.

He had never seen Obersturmführer Beilschmidt completely relaxed. The man was a constant, taught line, like the string of a violin.

He finished, and stood to the side. Waited for further instruction. None came.

He refilled the scotch glass when it was empty, brought the ashtray when it was needed. The officer never glanced at him.

Finally: “You’re dismissed, Weill.”

“Sir.”

…

Kitchen scraps were the best part of the job.

At least I’m eating better now. Even Feliks is jealous.

A smirk crossed his lips as he peeled potatoes for the officer’s evening meal.

Do you cook? he had asked.

Only the basics, he had responded.

Good. I like simple meals.

It was always that way with the officer. A new task, a new demand. Pointed questions, and no matter how unappealing he made himself appear—as personal tailor, secretary, cook, gardener, butler—the Obersturmführer appeared unconcerned. Merely expressed that it would be unwise to disappoint.

He’d always been a Jack-of-all-trades, never developed expertise in one area.

Never thought that would come in handy. Wonder if I’d still be alive if I were still at the Klinkenwerk.

He’d seen a few of the other fellows, since then. They looked at him with mistrust in their eyes. A mix of envy, awe, and hatred. As if he were some pampered prince, as if the stately house on the edge of town he went to work in every day were his own, and not just another sort of prison.

There was one difference, though, between the two. This new prison was not a triangle. It did not have a watchtower at the median point of the front side, with a view of the entire area. It did not have barracks stationed in radial array, so that each pathway between was visible from that one, central point.

In short, it was possible to hide, in this new prison. Whether in the kitchen, the study, the living room, he often found himself alone. Able to retreat into his mind. Imagine, even, that perhaps he were the master of this house.

The fantasy only went so far, though. There was a guard outside, of course. And when the Obersturmführer returned, everything changed. The relative ease he felt when alone was sapped from his bones until they were dry and brittle. The officer was the focus, the center of everything.

Then, I haven’t left the triangle after all, have I? He becomes the center point, from which all else radiates. He is the watchtower from which there is no hiding.

He is the center of the world, isn’t he. My world, at least, and what else matters? Each person exists in a world of their own; of their own creation, if not their conscious control. And mine is centered entirely around him.

The uniforms must be pressed. The meals must be hot. The reports must be flawlessly typed. The cigars must be trimmed just so. The cushions arranged, the curtains drawn and closed, the windows opened and shut, at just the right times, the shelves dusted, the books organized, the dishes washed the shoes polished the hedges trimmed the grass cut the bed made the tub scrubbed the carpets beaten the firewood stacked for the nights are growing colder the clocks wound the files sorted the scotch glass must always be kept filled.

Sometimes, he pretended he was doing all this for himself. But it was difficult.

No, I haven’t left the triangle at all.

…

_April, 1945_

It was worse than the Schuhläuferkommando.

The roads were just as rough as the terrain he’d been made to walk back then, round and round the test track, ill-fitting Wehrmacht boots on his blistered feet; but now the road seemed without end. Back then, he knew, at the end of the day, it had to stop. There would be a reprieve, however slight.

Now there was no guarantee. He’d seen men drop dead with exhaustion back then, too, but it was nothing like this. Back then, if a man stumbled, he could get back up and keep going. Now, one wrong step, one clumsy move—

The sound of a pistol pierced through the drone of thousands of stomping feet.

We’re never going to stop. They’re going to march us to death, as long as it takes till every single one of these pitiful bone-bags has fallen and has a bullet in his head.

Thirst. Hunger. Pain.

He had left the camp behind. But the triangle followed.

Through the sea of heads, he thought for a moment he caught sight of gold and blue—but he couldn’t be sure.

…

_October, 1944_

“How long have you been here, Weill?”

His eyes stayed focused on the foot in his lap. “Since 1939, sir.”

“Before or after the start of the war?”

“Just after, sir. Almost exactly five years ago.”

“Hm. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“You’re still alive.”

Now he looked at him; met eyes with a hint of cold amusement playing over them; had to look away.

“Yes, sir.”

“And your offense?”

He bristled.

“I was accused of antiwar agitation and being a communist sympathizer, sir.”

“Accused of? So you deny it?”

“I don’t deny that my views of the government and the war are not favorable, sir.”

A sneer curled the officer’s lip. “So you would let your country be overrun by the Bolshevik hordes? You’re the most despicable sort of traitor.”

The blood coursed swift through his veins, pounded in his ears.

“Not every political dissenter wishes to see the country incorporated into Stalin’s empire, sir.”

“And yet cowards like you would undermine our Führer’s efforts to deliver our people from Stalin’s aggression. While the fine young men of this country fight and die as martyrs, your likes shirk their patriotic duty and work to bring down our great nation from within.”

His hands remained calm and methodic as he worked on the foot, but he saw red.

“And those who can manage it praise the sacrifices of the dead from their comfy desk jobs far behind the front lines.”

Like a striking snake, the foot shot up and into his jaw, bowling him over backwards. Pain blossomed through his face.

He’d known he was treading on dangerous territory, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I could do far worse for an impertinent comment like that. Don’t try it again, Weill.”

He grimaced, got to his knees. “…Yes, sir.”

He pulled the other foot into his lap.

“So, are you a communist?”

“I flirted with their Party in the past, but never joined. I would cautiously consider myself a Social Democrat, sir.”

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt snorted. “Social Democrats? The weaklings who humiliated and betrayed this country before the entire world?”

“Otto Braun’s coalition government in Prussia was stable and effective until his illegal deposition. I put my faith in the democratic process to pave the way to a brighter and respectable future for this country. Sir.”

No response. He didn’t dare look up into the ice-eyes.

Finally, an amused huff. “You’re an idiot, Weill.” Then, softly, almost as a private afterthought: “An idiot with convictions.”

He continued his task in silence.

Just when he thought the officer would pull his leg away, satisfied with the massage, he spoke.

“Take off my sock.”

He blinked. “Sir?”

“Do I need to repeat myself, Weill?” A dangerous tone.

“No, sir.”

He obeyed the order.

The officer leaned forward and unclasped the buttons along the side of his calf, then loosened the laces that went up to the knee. He hitched up the pant leg.

“Look.”

A long, ragged scar extended from the ankle up the calf and disappeared under the hem of the pants.

“I was on the front in the East for 18 months. Belorussian partisans set the mine that nearly took off my leg.”

The officer pulled the hem of his pants back down.

“That will be all this evening, Weill.”

…

 _November, 1944_

Sometimes now, he noticed the officer limping slightly. Especially when it rained.

How did I miss that before?

He observed the stern silhouette, the severe profile, from a distance.

Maybe because he looks so damn proud all the time.

…

The ice followed him.

He could feel it, everywhere he went. Even when Obersturmführer Beilschmidt was not in the room with him.

Like an ice cube sliding down his spine.

He shivered.

He rarely dared to look the officer in the face. But he was sure the officer’s eyes rested on him often.

When he was typing up the officer’s handwritten reports in the study, and the man came in to fetch a file or look over his assistant’s work.

When he was standing at attention by the dinner table; Obersturmführer Beilschmidt had ordered him to stand where he could see him, rather than behind his chair.

He kept his eyes focused on the wall ahead of him, but he could feel it:

Ice, sliding down his spine.

His hands trembled when he refilled the officer’s wine glass.

One time, Obersturmführer Beilschmidt grabbed his hand after he’d placed the bottle back on the table.

The grip was harsh.

His breath caught; his eyes jumped to the officer’s face before he could help it.

“You’re trembling, Weill. Have you caught cold?”

He swallowed. Those eyes. He couldn’t look away from those eyes. They froze him in place.

“No, sir.” The words barely scraped out of his throat.

“Then clean up your act. You dripped on my table cloth.”

His eyes darted down to the white cloth. It was marked by a stain of red.

“I’ll clean it right away, sir.”

“Don’t you think you had better wait till I’m finished eating?”

“…Yes, sir.”

The grasp on his hand was released.

His fingers tingled with cold.

…

_April, 1945_

“It won’t be long, now.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“The Red Army gets closer to Berlin by the day. Soon the order to evacuate the camp will come.”

He felt a cold panic seep into his gut.

“What will you do, sir?”

“I will follow my orders.” Blue eyes regarded him coolly. “And you will follow my orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Collect some food for yourself from the kitchen. Enough for a few days. You shouldn’t have to wait too long.”

“Sir?”

“You won’t be coming with us.”

…

_October, 1945_

It was raining. A strident tattoo beat on the tin roof of the barrack.

His fingers worked on the leg of the man lying before him, experience guiding them to the spots that would help ease the tension in his muscles.

“Do you think they’re trying to bore us to death?”

With a surprised laugh, he glanced up at the man’s face.

“They’d be doing an alright job at it.”

The man wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Not even keeping us here for anything useful. Just locking us up to rot. If someone took the initiative to organize some work details, we could get something done. They have able-bodied men here, while outside these walls the only ones left to clear away the wreckage they wrought is the women.”

He peered at the man’s disgruntled face.

“Are you telling me you would rather have been imprisoned here when your lot was running the place?”

Blue eyes darkened at that. The man didn’t answer.

“Well, anyway, I’m not so sure they want us to rebuild that quickly,” he continued. “That might be the point.”

His stomach protested loudly. There had been no soup left for him at lunch that day.

He grimaced. “And if they keep slashing rations, we won’t be so able-bodied anyway.”

The man before him let out a frustrated sigh. His blue eyes remained distant, his brow furrowed.

But as the skilled hands worked over his leg, the tension slowly drained from his face. The blue eyes closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical references:
> 
> Kapo–a prisoner (usually a green triangle criminal) appointed by the SS to act as a camp functionary/policeman. Enjoyed special privileges, known for their brutality towards fellow prisoners.
> 
> Bolshevik–Lenin's dominant faction of the Communist Party in the Russian Revolution; in this case, synonymous with Communist.
> 
> Brickworks–one of the worst places to work as a prisoner. The factory produced bricks with which the envisioned fascist capital city would be constructed.
> 
> Obersturmführer–a ranking in the SS equivalent to First Lieutenant.
> 
> Klinkenwerk–the brickworks.
> 
> Prussian Junkers–land-owning military nobility of Prussia, many of whom held large estates in the East until the end of the war.
> 
> Schuhläuferkommando–punishment work detail, assigned to test boots for the Wehrmacht (part of Sachsenhausen's shoe factory). Prisoners were forced to march nearly 50 kilometers in a day along a test track with various terrain surfaces, sometimes with heavy backpacks. Death from exhaustion was common.
> 
> Social Democrats–a main political party in Weimar Germany, left of center but not revolutionary (communists tended to hate them as much as they hated Nazis). The popular "stab in the back" myth propagated by conservatives after World War I told that Social Democrats in the government (along with communists and Jews) had betrayed the country by surrendering before Germany was really beaten.
> 
> Otto Braun–Social Democrat and Prime Minister of the Free State of Prussia for most of the Weimar period. In the politically tumultuous interwar period, his government proved the most effective within the Weimar system, until it was purposely undermined by Nazi supporters in order to clear the way for Hitler (see Preußenschlag on the timeline).
> 
> "bore us to death" and women clearing the wreckage (Oct. 1945 section)–whereas Sachsenhausen had been a work camp under the Nazis, prisoners suffered from a lack of activity under Soviet supervision. In the meantime, due to the lack of civilian men, women (known as the "Trümmerfrauen" or "rubble women") became largely responsible for the task of clearing away the ruins of bombed cities and rebuilding.
> 
> More general historical information can be found on my fic blog (see my profile) in the post "Das Rote Dreieck reference post" (under the "Das Rote Dreieck" tag or the "fic related" tag)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes are at the bottom to help you understand some stuff! You don't have to read them if you don't want to, but I hope you find them helpful/interesting. Also going back to add notes to the first chapter.

_November, 1944_

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt liked to go riding. He had a horse kept for him at a nearby farm.

He knew to have the bath ready for the officer when he returned. Hot.

Today the officer looked especially stiff as he came in. Mouth set in a terse line.

Rigid as a sculpture.

"Weill."

He snapped to attention and helped the coat off of square shoulders, removed the boots. He followed the officer to his bedroom and waited as he undressed to his underclothes, then took the heavy uniform out to be washed.

The officer called him back a while later.

The man lay stretched across the bed on his stomach, white towel draped over his hips.

"The back and legs, Weill."

He approached the bed, spotted the jar of cream the officer had placed there for him to use. He knelt awkwardly up on the bed next to the man, scooped out some of the cream, and started on the back.

He has muscles. Almost forgot what it feels like to touch a body that's more than skin and bone.

Hard muscle. But smooth. Not like the wiry, stringy excuse I've got binding up brittle arms and legs.

Warm too. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me. But it does. Shockingly warm. Miles and miles of warm, firm skin—he's a large man, even without those layers of fabric—

"Do you have a girl, Weill?"

He blinked, remembered to keep his hands working.

"Sir?"

"On the outside, I mean. Someone waiting for you."

His heart sped up. His head spun.

Why are you asking me that? You're not supposed to ask that, you're not allowed to ask that!

He swallowed harshly, throat suddenly dry. "No sir, there's no one."

"Ah. Not anymore, you mean."

His hands paused. A pointed throat-clearing from the officer set them back to work.

"Who was she?"

Green eyes, glowing like lamps with a fierce life. Brown tresses falling in waves down her back, so soft as he ran his fingers through them…

"Weill?" The tone demanded an answer.

He forced himself to speak. "A Hungarian girl, sir. A long time ago."

"Hmm. And what happened?"

Fire surged in his chest, sparked in his eyes.

Who are you to demand an answer? It's my life. It's my life!

"She was a communist, sir. They shot her."

His hands trembled. Round and round, pressing circles into hard, smooth flesh—

"Weill, you're pressing too hard. Gently, or the muscles won't recover."

The flame jumped within him again, licking at his insides. But he changed the pressure of his fingers, responded in a carefully controlled voice: "is this better, sir?"

"Mm. Yes."

He had never hated the officer more.

You're under my hands. You're at my mercy. I could kill you. I could wrap my hands around that perfect neck, and squeeze, and squeeze, watch your face redden, your eyes roll back, your body spasm—

"The legs, now, Weill."

"Yes, sir."

…

"You've actually read _Mein Kampf_?"

"Yes, sir. You know what they say. 'Know thy enemy.'"

A cold flash in the eyes; for a moment, he feared the reaction.

But then they softened in amusement, and the officer let out a low chuckle. "And have you always been so convinced that you know who the enemy is?"

"Fairly, sir." He leaned over to refill the officer's scotch glass.

"Fairly? Do I detect some doubt?"

"There was a time, sir, when a part of the NSDAP embraced a populist, revolutionary ideology. If they hadn't infused it with their racial views, and if the brownshirts hadn't been such thugs, it might have been somewhat appealing."

To his surprise, the officer laughed. "You have a sharp tongue on you, Weill, be careful how you use it. But I'll admit the SA wasn't the most sophisticated of organizations. Thankfully we have improved on the precedent of our parent organization."

"Perhaps in terms of covering up thugishness from the public eye."

"Watch yourself, Weill."

"Sir."

"In any case, National Socialism is for the people. It was envisioned as such by the Führer from its inception, and that has not changed."

"The Nazi Party and the war have been financed by capitalists and industrialists, sir, and the Führer deemed the support of traditional conservatives more important than that of the working class. He lost any credibility as an advocate of social change on the Night of the Long Knives."

A blue eye twitched. "The traitor Röhm and his lackeys were planning a putsch. That's common knowledge."

"So it was coincidence only that all those who called for true social revolution were targeted?"

"Coincidence? No, it makes complete sense. Strasser and his beefsteaks were opportunists, riding on the wave of public support for the Führer to push their own radical agenda. Along with Röhm they planned to overthrow the Führer and coopt his achievements for their personal gain."

"Some might view it differently, sir. They might say the Führer used them to get to the top, then betrayed them and their vision in a pure power grab, solidifying his position with the old elite and freeing himself to impose an authoritarian system."

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt glared ice at him. "You're lucky I enjoy a bit of verbal sparring every once in a while, Weill. And that I have such patience for fools."

The glass was pushed towards him, empty again.

He filled it.

"What do you know of the people in any case," continued the officer, hissing the words with poison on his tongue. "You claim to be their advocate, to want a better future for the workers of this country, and yet what do you really know of the world beyond these walls anymore? How can you be an advocate for a society you are no longer a part of? A society that has rejected you?"

He stiffened. "It wasn't they who rejected me, sir."

The officer laughed, cold and cruel. "Oh? That just shows how little you really know. Are you so blind? When you would march through the streets to the brickworks, when you come to and from this house every day, do you mean to tell me you see sympathy in the eyes of those you pass? Do you honestly mean to tell me that you see anything but contempt and fear in their faces when they see that striped uniform, that red triangle on your chest? Aren't those the ordinary Germans whose champion you so proudly claim to be? You're not the champion they want—a pathetic, half-starved skeleton in criminals' clothing."

His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm. "This uniform, this triangle, they blind them from the truth, sir. They have learned to fear them. If I were free of them, then there would be a chance—"

"You'll never be free of them." A fierce snarl. "You've earned them. Jedem das Seine; you've heard the words, haven't you? An old Prussian saying. It's the sacred rule of our rejuvenated society. You've chosen your place, and the German people have chosen theirs. You have no place in the world we're building; in the world the people want."

He struggled to control the tremors shaking his body in anger. Or was it fear?

Ridiculous; what could I possibly be afraid of in those outrageous words?

…But he might be right. I'm afraid he might be right.

…

_December, 1944_

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt was in a foul mood.

He nearly got himself kicked for not being quick enough with the boots; he did get himself kicked for trying to give the customary massage.

"Do I look like I'm in the mood for that? Get me a drink," was the growl.

He obeyed.

The officer threw back the gold liquid quickly, demanded another.

He obeyed.

"More."

He obeyed.

He stood, every nerve alert and thrumming with energy. He watched the officer as he gulped, throat moving, then wiped his mouth, gulped again.

And then, he found himself caught in the frosty glare.

"What are you staring at, Weill?"

He couldn't move, couldn't think.

"…Sir? I didn't—"

"You were. You were staring. What, is this such an amusing spectacle to you? So I'm upset—you think that's funny?"

Funny was the last thing he would call it. "N-no, sir—"

"Don't lie to me."

Suddenly the officer was on his feet. A large hand found the front of the striped uniform, clutched it like a talon.

"I'm too soft on you, Weill." The voice was too low, too cool. Dangerous.

He could smell the scotch on the officer's hot breath.

He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.

"The things I let you get away with… all because you've got an occasionally clever brain."

A long finger rapped sharply on his skull, almost painfully.

Blue eyes gazed into red, hazy.

"You have devil's eyes, Weill." A murmur. "Where did you get them?"

The finger went to the bridge of his nose, traced along it.

"Same place you got this nose? A Prussian Junker. I didn't believe it at first; this pathetic man, descended from such a noble line… but the nose. It's decidedly aristocratic."

He didn't speak; just trembled under the officer's hands.

The finger fell to his lips. His heart raced. Flaming tendrils of anxiety crawled their way through his stomach and up his throat.

The officer was inches away from his face, ice eyes fixed on his lips and lit with something akin to hatred.

At first the finger was gentle, almost tender, testing the softness of the lip. Then it pressed harder, joined by another finger. They pulled the bottom lip down to reveal the teeth. The finger traced along them, forced its way between them.

"And your teeth…" breathed the officer. "White and straight. Who would have thought…"

The fingers pried his jaw open, all trace of gentleness gone. They felt the sharp ridges, all under the cold gaze of those eyes, pinning him to the spot, assessing him.

And then they met his own again, boring into him. Laying him bare. Sharp. Deadly.

The fingers moved suddenly. They left off inspecting teeth and reached for the back of his throat, shoving in as far as they would go.

He gagged, tried to pull away, but the officer slammed him into the back of the couch, bent him over it so he couldn't move. And still, the fingers reached in, choking him so he couldn't breathe, so tears sprang to his eyes.

He tried in vain to push the man off, but it was like trying to shift a mountain. He stared at the blue eyes, wide and mad. With terrifying certainty, he felt they were looking not at him, but into him.

Just when he thought he might pass out or be sick, Obersturmführer Beilschmidt tore away from him. He keeled over to the side, clutching his burning throat, gasping and coughing.

"Get out of my sight," was the quiet, cold order.

…

There was a stack of neatly folded fabric sitting atop his work desk, and on top of that lay a book. Upon closer inspection he discovered the book was a collection of Nietzsche essays, and the folded cloth was no less than three brand new pairs of underwear.

He stared at the gifts. Because they were gifts, they must be. What else could be the meaning of their placement directly in his workspace, where Obersturmführer Beilschmidt knew he would find them? They didn't belong to the officer, that much he knew for sure.

He was afraid to touch them. He had the odd hunch that they might be a trap. But he needed to move them so he could use the typewriter.

With a trembling hand he reached out and traced the spine of the book. He opened its cover and ran the pads of his fingers over the cool, smooth paper. It had been so long since he had owned anything quite so fine.

I own this now. He gave it to me, so it's mine. My possession.

But the concept of possession was difficult to process from this end. He was the possession, not the possessor.

Property.

He frowned.

Well and good to talk about its abolishment and equal distribution, but...

He set the book aside and felt the soft cloth of the underwear.

Real cotton.

I don't believe it.

A hot tightness seized his throat as he snatched up the garments and stuffed them inside his shirt, as if afraid someone else would see them and take them from him.

A second later he felt foolish.

Who would steal them anyway? The Obersturmführer? The guard outside?

He snorted. He was alone here.

But he wouldn't be once he got back to the triangle. Then he would guard the gifts with his life. The book no one would want, he knew. But real cotton underwear...

He thought of the officer's eyes, the night before, cold blue watching him choke and gasp with-what was it? Hatred? Some perverse pleasure?

He chose these gifts for me. But when? Was he already planning on giving them or is this... an apology?

If it was the latter, he wasn't sure he could accept.

But he still kept the gifts.

...

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt didn't mention them. In fact the officer hardly spoke to him, hardly looked at him at all that day.

...

And the next. And for a while after.

He got used to being left to attend to his tasks on his own.

But he was not any less alert for it.

Still, when the officer was near him, he remembered his hands gripping him tight, the surprising softness of the fingers on his face, his lips... And then the horrible pushing, shoving, the roughness and rawness of it as he struggled to breathe around the invading digits.

Sometimes he realized he forgot to breathe when he thought of it; and on the rare occasions when the officer's eyes did meet his own he found his lungs suddenly full of ice, and he couldn't have taken breath even if it had occurred to him.

...

"Weill."

He was at attention without even consciously processing the implicit demand.

Action and reaction. Equal and opposite. Automatic. Simple physics, really.

"Come with me."

The Obersturmführer led him to his bedroom.

There was something about the bedroom. He didn't like it.

Four-poster, dark mahogany, darker duvet. A black bed, how fitting. Thick carpet over the shiny wood floor. Large, ornate dresser and matching side tables. Walls a green deeper than the depths of the Schwarzwald. It smelled strongly of the officer's cologne (a smell he'd come to know well), though it looked as if it ought to smell of musty old books and older money.

What kind of family does he come from anyway? I've told him about mine but he hasn't told me anything. I know how he likes his eggs, I know how he crosses his tees, I know that he prefers Wagner to Schubert and how many scotches he can down before he shows any side effects (four), but I don't know the first thing about him; childhood, women, home? Just one jagged scar up his shin to prove he even existed at all before coming here.

The smell of the cologne was dizzying. And it was giving him a headache.

"Try these on."

His attention snapped to the officer. He'd been so lost in his observations that he hadn't noticed the clothes laid neatly over the dressing horse, to which the officer now gestured.

He blinked at the garments. Pressed pants and shirt, waistcoat, jacket. Far too fancy for the likes of him.

He wasn't going to ask (he didn't dare) but the officer answered the question in his head.

"There's a function coming up. For the holidays. You'll accompany me as my personal attendant and help for the staff. I expect you to look the part."

He took the items into the officer's personal bathroom—all blinding white tile—as instructed and tried them on. The pants were too large for his thin frame—he'd have to take them in a bit. But otherwise…

He looked at himself in the mirror. Healthier than he'd been a few months ago, for sure, but still. So pale, so hollowed out.

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt entered without knocking.

Critical eyes examined him closely from head to foot, easily making out every tiny flaw.

"You'll tailor them as needed before the end of the week. I'll get you some better shoes, too."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's not for you. I can't show up with my man wearing those sorry slippers with his waistcoat. It would be highly embarrassing."

The officer moved closer, stood behind him, staring at the pitiful reflection.

"Do try to eat some more, Weill. You look damn awful."

"Yes, sir."

A hand reached up past his shoulder to grab a jar of pomade and a comb off the shelf.

"And your hair. Something needs to be done about it."

"Yes, sir."

The officer spread the pomade thickly through pale, choppy hair, and forced it to part in a neat line with the comb.

The fingers were rough on his scalp, and the comb pulled at his hair without mercy.

At last, the officer was satisfied.

"That'll do, I think."

He looked at himself in the mirror, turned his head this way and that. The change was indescribable. He could almost convince himself he was a regular person from outside the triangle. His hair lay flat to his head, sleeked down like he'd seen in advertisements or on some of the more fashion-conscious SS-men. With the pressed shirt and bowtie, perhaps he could even pass as one of them. No red triangle in sight.

He didn't want to take off the fine new clothes, but Obersturmführer Beilschmidt ordered him back into the stripes. Triangle emblazoned on his chest.

At least he got to keep the hair.

…

_December, 1945_

"You should eat some more. You look goddamn awful."

An aloof snort was his response. "You tell me where I can find the food, and I'll eat it."

He frowned. That voice was too thin, a shadow of the rich baritone that once commanded such authority, once ruled every aspect of his life and filled his waking hours—sometimes even his dreams.

The thin shoulders—they, too, had changed so much, still proud and stiff but not so broad, so strong—shivered under the flimsy, formless coat. A hoarse cough racked the entire body, and didn't stop for a good ten seconds.

He's getting worse. He won't let it on, damn fool. Still so proud. But I can see through that front. Maybe he thinks I can't, maybe he thinks he's still some unknowable mystery to me.

But in the end we're only human.

…

_December, 1944_

Look at them all. Fat pigs stuffed into parodies of a fighting man's uniform, sitting here swilling champagne and exchanging self-congratulatory anecdotes.

But still, there's a bit of fear in their eyes, isn't there. Something lurking beneath all this frivolous gaiety. Berlin is safe, yes, we're safe here, but they've all heard the news from the front, they know how desperate it's gotten.

That's right. Go on and stuff your face with sausages and cigars, you won't be able to for long. Judgment is coming and it won't be kind.

"Weill."

He snapped to attention from his brooding observations of the crowd gathered before him.

The officer was there at his side—he hadn't noticed him approach.

"For God's sake, Weill, you look like you're plotting murder. Well, perhaps you are, I wouldn't be surprised, but put a good face on it won't you? You're spoiling the mood."

He nearly dropped the tray of champagne flutes he was holding when the Obersturmführer clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

He's drunk. Or getting there.

"Here. Have a drink, it'll help."

One of the flutes was suddenly being pressed into his hand.

"S-sir?"

"The world won't end, Weill. Drink it. It's Christmas—I'm feeling charitable. Don't refuse charity, Weill. Pride isn't flattering. Especially on the likes of you."

His cheeks burned. But he wasn't sure if it had more to do with the officer's words, or the hand still resting on his shoulder as if it belonged there.

The officer picked up a glass as well. "Prost."

"…Prost."

Etiquette dictated that he meet the other's eyes when toasting. He forced himself to look into blue, as if he weren't terribly agitated by the situation.

He struggled to balance the tray on one hand as they clinked glasses and drank; the ice eyes were still locked onto him. He felt he couldn't look away first. It would mean surrender, retreat.

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt downed nearly all the contents of the glass in one go. Finally the eyes slid away as the officer let out a sigh.

"It's the only way I can bear these things."

"Sir?"

"These social functions, I mean." The flute was brandished haphazardly at the room, filled with the black and white of dress uniforms, the glint of polished buttons, the sparkle of women's jewelry. "The brass here are all blustering idiots. Nothing but glorified bureaucrats."

The rest of the champagne disappeared quickly. The officer examined his empty glass.

"Go see if they have something stronger in the kitchen, will you?"

"Sir."

He walked away, feeling slightly off-balance at the officer's odd behavior. Speaking to him almost like a comrade.

He glanced at the champagne flute still in his hand, unfinished.

Must be much nicer stuff than any I've ever had. But I forgot to pay attention to how it tastes.

…

It was late by the time Obersturmführer Beilschmidt gathered him to go to the car; or rather, he gathered the Obersturmführer.

The officer had had several more glasses, and it wasn't champagne.

He had to help the man from the car to his front door, and then up the stairs to the bedroom, sagging under the weight.

With difficulty, he managed to get the dress coat off, and was finally able to deposit the officer onto the bed, where the man barely remained in a sitting position.

He started untying the dress shoes.

The officer mumbled something.

He dismissed it as drunken muttering to oneself and removed the shoes without responding.

But then two hands shot out and grabbed the sides of his head, tugged him in close between splayed thighs.

"I said _look at me_." The growl was surprisingly articulate.

His head was forced back. He stared up into the officer's face, bent low enough that he could feel hot breath on his skin, nostrils filled with the oppressive odor of alcohol.

He sat, still and trembling, like a rabbit trapped in the gaze of a snake. Waiting. Waiting for his fate to be doled out. Unable to run.

"Why do you do this to me? Why do you torture me?" The voice was thick and hoarse.

Fingers tightened in his hair. He winced. But still he didn't move.

And then the snake struck.

With a painful jerk, he was pulled up and tossed onto the bed. The officer's strength was not impaired, even if his coordination was.

He landed face down on the cool, smooth covers that smelled strongly of the officer's cologne. The olfactory overload made him dizzy.

He felt hands grab him from behind. He twisted away, heart pounding—but his leg was caught, pinned down painfully to the bed with a knee. The hands reached for his shirt—he blocked them with his arms and they grappled for a moment.

A desperate fumbling—what's happening—harsh breathing—this isn't happening—and he was pinned on his stomach.

A heavy, hot weight rested on his entire body as the officer lay over him, pressed him down into the mattress.

His heart was in his throat. He was sweating through his nice clothes. The ones the Obersturmführer had given him.

Humid breath tickled his ear and neck. Fingers closed around his wrists like vices and pushed his hands above his head.

There was an insistent pressure high up on his thigh. Prodding, full of intent.

His stomach clenched.

He's… excited by this. This isn't—this can't—it's not real.

The officer's nose pressed into his hair. He shuddered, squeezed his eyes shut. Braced himself.

But nothing happened.

The fingers on his wrists slackened; the breathing slowed, evened out. Obersturmführer Beilschmidt lay slumped over him, asleep.

He stayed there quivering for several minutes before he felt in control of himself. Forced himself to think clearly and calmly.

Luckily he knew his number would not be called at Appell in the morning; the Obersturmführer had told him they would get back late and he was to spend the night at the house. He was already excused from the evening roll call, as he was often kept late and had to be escorted back after curfew.

But he didn't plan on spending the night crushed beneath the officer's substantial form.

Slowly, cautiously, he tried sliding out from under the man. But it was impossible without jostling him considerably. Praying the officer was too drunk to notice, he rolled the bulky weight off of himself and sat up.

Only to be pulled back down.

"Stay." The order was quiet and sleepy, but unmistakable in its firmness. Not to be disobeyed.

He was enclosed by long arms and pulled against a hard chest. He didn't dare try leave now.

He remained alert as long as he could. But sleep pulled at his senses, and eventually he was lulled to sleep by the steady inhale and exhale of the warm body next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical references:
> 
> Mein Kampf: the book Hitler wrote while in jail in the 20s. The title means "My Struggle." It outlines his ideology and vision for Germany, yet according to Goebbels (at least I think it was Goebbels) practically no high ranking Nazi officials actually read it. Can't blame them; it's kinda dense.
> 
> NSDAP: Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, or Nazi Party.
> 
> brownshirts: SA stormtroopers, who wore brown shirts with their uniform.
> 
> SA: Sturmabteilung, Nazi paramilitary organization, which was superseded by the SS (Schutzstaffel) in 1934 after the Night of the Long Knives.
> 
> Night of the Long Knives: a purge of the Nazi ranks that took place from June 30-July 2, 1934, during which those seen as Hitler's political and ideological rivals were arrested or murdered. These included mostly members and leaders of the SA.
> 
> Röhm: Ernst Röhm was the leader of the SA. He was executed during the Night of the Long Knives. To legitimize the purge, the Nazis made up the excuse that Röhm had been planning a coup to overthrow Hitler.
> 
> Strasser and the "beefsteaks": Not an indie band name, catchy as it is. Gregor Strasser (along with his brother Otto, who was thrown out of the party earlier) was a leading figure in the strain of Nazi ideology that emphasized the need to topple the old German elites and impose a new social order. He and Röhm represent the "leftist" wing of the party. They believed that Hitler coming to power was the first stage of the revolution, and the next, socialist stage, was yet to be fulfilled. "Beefsteak" Nazis refers to followers of Strasserism, who held revolutionary communist views and hoped to see them fulfilled by the Nazis. The term comes from the idea that they were brown on the outside (brownshirts) but red on the inside (communists). Strasserism was still an essentially nationalistic and racist, anti-Semitic ideology.
> 
> Jedem das Seine: "To each his own" or "To each what he deserves" from the Latin suum cuique. This motto was displayed on the entrance gates to Buchenwald concentration camp (at Sachsenhausen the motto on the gates was the infamous Arbeit macht frei, "work makes you free," as at Auschwitz).
> 
> general note: Hitler was able to come to power by working with less radical, old-school conservatives and monarchists within the government, who mistakenly believed that they could control Hitler and the Nazi party if they incorporated them into the government. It was partly to appease these sorts of politicians and old military leaders that Hitler carried out the purge of the SA, which was seen as too thuggish and radical.
> 
> note on concentration camps: work camps like Sachsenhausen were integrated into the economy and administration of the towns where they were located. Townspeople knew exactly where and what they were, even if they didn't know all the details of what went on inside. It was completely normal for them to see prisoners being taken to and from work at various sites in and around town every day.
> 
> Appell: roll call, conducted twice a day in the camps. All prisoners had to stand still for the duration, sometimes for hours on end, no matter the weather.


	3. Chapter 3

_April 21, 1945_

He was awoken by pounding on the front door.

Why's he pounding on his own door? He lock himself out or something?

He rose from the bed as quickly as his groggy mind would allow and threw on his uniform, then hurried downstairs.

Better not keep him waiting.

But when he opened the door, it was not Obersturmführer Beilschmidt standing on the step.

The unfamiliar man was a high-ranking officer; he had braided passants on his shoulders and four squares rather than three on his collar badge.

The man sneered at him. "Where's the Obersturmführer?"

He tried to hide his dismay. He shouldn't have answered the door. "He's gone to the Commandant's headquarters, a few hours ago, sir."

Stay here. I'll be back.

Those were the Obersturmführer's words.

He would obey.

"If he's already there, good. You come with me."

The stranger grabbed him by the arm.

"Sir! Obersturmführer Beilschmidt ordered me to wait for him—"

"All prisoners are to report to the Appellplatz immediately."

He was tugged forward roughly and the man slammed the door shut behind him.

"But sir, Obersturmführer Beilschmidt is expecting me to—"

"I don't give a damn what the Obersturmführer expects! I'm his superior, and I say you're going to the Appellplatz, now!"

He was shoved roughly and stumbled on the walkway.

I don't even have my shoes.

This can't be happening. It's now; they're evacuating the camp. But we have everything ready, we made sure of that—supplies enough to last three days down in the cellar. I'm supposed to stay here, in the house. Safe. Like we discussed.

His heart fluttered with panic. I'm not ready for this. I don't have a coat, I don't have shoes. This can't be happening. I have to get out of it, somehow.

"But sir, Obersturmführer Beilschmidt told me it was important—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence before knuckles connected with the side of his head and nearly bowled him over. The new officer had his stick out, and he quickly dealt three excruciatingly well-aimed blows to his lower back.

He cried out as searing pain shot up his spine.

And then there was a pistol against his head.

"You come with me or I will shoot you! Every man able to walk. So, you can walk, or you can be dead."

Cold metal. The promise of death.

No. I have to live.

That's what he said. You're going to live.

He forced one foot in front of the other. But his feet were carrying him away from where he was supposed to be, away from safety.

He's going to be worried, when he sees I'm gone. Or maybe he's not coming back after all; maybe he won't even know.

Maybe I've already seen him for the last time in my life.

Maybe that ought to make me relieved. But I don't feel relieved.

He felt hollow.

…

_December, 1944_

He awoke before the officer. Still paralyzed by a heavy arm slung over his waist.

He stared at the canopy above the bed. Waiting. Dreading.

Finally, the officer stirred.

He didn't dare look at him. He wasn't sure if the man was actually awake or not.

But then a large hand fell on his shoulder, pushed him away.

"Get me a glass of water. And an aspirin." The voice sounded hoarse and dry.

He got up without hesitation. "Yes, sir." A small voice, like he was afraid of making too much noise in this room.

He kept his distance as he handed over the requested items.

The officer swallowed the pill and gulped down the water, then sat there rubbing a hand over his face for several long seconds.

Finally: "Go start on those files I gave you the other day. Don't bother with breakfast; I won't be eating for a while."

The eyes were hidden behind the hand.

"Yes, sir."

…

_January, 1945_

He was an exposed wire. Rubbed raw. A coil of potential energy, just waiting for the right spark to start the fire.

He couldn't stand even to be in the same room as the officer. The presence was magnified tenfold in his mind, overbearing and all-absorbing. And even when they were not in the same room, he could still sense him. The cologne lingering in the air, the chill that settled into his bones whenever the officer looked at him.

He couldn't concentrate on his work. He could barely sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw blue gazing back.

The weight of another body on his. The shameless evidence of male pleasure pressed against him. The pinch around his wrists, the nose buried in his hair. The breath on the back of his neck, making his hairs stand on end, his stomach lurch, his brow grow slick with sweat, his heart quicken.

It was a strange sickness that took hold of him whenever Obersturmführer Beilschmidt so much as looked at him, let alone spoke to him.

Or touched him, as he seemed to more and more often. Just casually, briefly.

Brushing his shoulder as he reached past him to pick up a finished report. Touching his hand to cut him off when he was pouring the wine for dinner. Straightening his uniform out while chastising him for his sloppy appearance.

Then there were the touches that were very much intentional. It almost seemed they were for the sake of touching alone, and that unnerved him the most.

When the officer grabbed his arm and insisted on closely inspecting his nails for cleanliness, holding his palm and each individual finger in turn. When the officer rested a hand on his shoulder while looking over his work, weather typewriting, accounting, or sewing—as if just to remind him that he could. The Obersturmführer could do anything he wanted, at any moment.

And always he felt the man's eyes on him on those occasions. Looking for a reaction, no doubt. Assessing him. Like a specimen.

Apparently the man felt no shame for his actions, and it made him furious. And frightened.

…

He was massaging the officer's feet after a long day: a task already degrading enough, but doubly despised by him after having felt the man's entire body in a way he'd never hoped to.

It was then that a hand snaked out and grabbed him by the back of the neck.

Immediately he went stiff.

What does he want this time?

The officer simply looked at him. Examined.

"You don't like me touching you."

It wasn't a question, hardly even an observation: simply a statement of fact.

Blue eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you feel towards me." Again, not a question, at least not one directed at him.

"Hate is easy to identify. But there are a million different varieties of hatred. Yours… is fearful. But more than that, angry. Am I right?"

He dropped his eyes, face flush with embarrassment and—yes, anger. He wanted to throw off the hand around his neck that was sending waves of shivering hot and cold down his spine.

"An indignant anger. Born of the belief that I shouldn't have the right to treat you like this; the belief that you are above your station."

He quivered. How many times had he thought just that? Perhaps his greatest paranoia was true; that the officer really could see into him, inside, with those penetrating eyes.

Just a smart guess. He's clever.

"You think you're better than me, don't you."

He stiffened. The statement was spoken with no value judgment, but it was dangerous.

Especially as, he realized, he had never viewed anyone who wore the red armband with anything but scorn. Perhaps the officer was right.

"No, sir." He kept his voice as even as possible.

To his surprise, the officer laughed and let go. He glanced up.

"Of course you do. You believe you have the moral highground." The Obersturmführer's teeth flashed in a pointy grin as he leaned back.

He hated that look. Such utter, effortless contempt; the eyes of an opium addict and the mouth of a killer.

"Do you know why you think that?"

He didn't humor him with an answer.

"It's because you're weak."

His face flamed with rage simmering just beneath the surface.

He thinks he knows everything about me. He thinks he has me pinned. You will never know me; you are incapable of understanding me. There is a place deep within me you will never touch.

"Let me explain something to you, Weill. Did you know that I was orphaned at a young age?"

He blinked; of course he hadn't known that. The officer was always so secretive about his past. There wasn't a single portrait or family photo anywhere in the house, as far as he'd seen.

He frowned, disquieted by the seeming non sequitur. "No, sir."

"I'm not telling you so you'll feel sorry for me. You see, where I come from is of no consequence. My family is not important. The only important thing is that I have been alone. I have made my own way. We are all self-made men, Weill. But see what I've made myself, and look what you've made yourself."

The eyes appraised him coolly. But the frost did nothing to lessen the heat of humiliation in his cheeks and the burn of hatred in his throat.

"You see, I've learned something, Weill. There are many men who would claim their moral superiority, who profess to be contented with this alone, no matter their circumstances. But this superiority is an illusion. Their morality is an illusion. There is no good and evil; there is only the strong, and the weak. An inflated ego is all the weak have to cling to. They feed on the deceit they themselves create, and when possible, they drag the strong down with them.

"Strength means only the strength to see the truth; sapere aude. For too long, this nation, this entire continent, has been ruled by the weak. The people have been mislead, their vision clouded with lies and slavish idolatry. But I have taken my place with the new caretakers. We are cleaning away the psychic cobwebs of the past and ushering in a new era of strength. Sometimes it's messy work. But it is necessary, to free the soul of this nation, to manifest the will of a naturally strong people."

"Idolatry?" His eyes blazed. "I know some things about idolatry. Let me tell you, I've never seen a crowd so blinded with devotion as that at a Party rally I witnessed in Weimar. You call believing the ranting of a delusional man 'daring to know'? On the contrary, believing tall tales of victimization and a grand destiny is the easiest, most cowardly choice one can make."

Livid eyes pierced into him, warned him to stop. But he hadn't come this far only to back down. This time, he would not let those eyes bend him to submission.

"And who gets to decide who can join in this brave new world of yours anyway? It's a process just as full of corruption and hypocrisy as any other where there's profit to be made. Take you, for example."

The eyes bore down on him. The ice was beginning to break, and he was standing on it. But with every word he drove a stake further into the cracks.

"The only difference between you and the men in the Schuhläuferkommando is that they're wearing stripes and you're wearing black. Tell me, did you put that uniform on to avoid getting a triangle of your own?"

The moment he said it he knew he'd gone too far.

He'd never seen the Obersturmführer quite so still, or quite so frightening.

"You should not have said that." Barely more than a whisper. Each deliberate syllable a poisonous hiss.

The officer reached for him again, one large hand closing around his throat.

"You are going to regret that."

…

As soon as they had entered through the main gates he knew where they were going.

His stomach dropped.

The only reason he'd lived this long was that he'd avoided this very place.

Where men came out broken. Often irreparably. Unfit to work. Not long for this world.

His legs tried to stop working, but the officer tugged him along by the front of his uniform.

He was helpless, he realized. The lamb being led to the slaughter. There was no use running, no use calling for help. Whether he impotently resisted or went cooperatively made no difference. He might as well go along.

A part of himself disintegrated, shut down completely, as they entered the barracks.

He was led to a room at the back. The Obersturmführer exchanged a few words with the guard; he couldn't hear them over the dull hum of dread in his ears. The guard nodded and unlocked the door. He was led inside, the door shut.

There were no words exchanged between them. He was compliant, let the officer position him in the center of the room, remove his shirt, and tie his hands behind his back, so tight he felt them start to go numb within seconds.

There was an understanding between them, he fancied. He knew what was coming, and knew it was inevitable, and so he allowed the officer to go about it without complaint. Like a contractual agreement. They each knew their place and carried out their roles accordingly. That was the rational explanation; that was what he told himself to keep from breaking down.

A rope was attached to his bound wrists and slung over a beam near the ceiling. The first tendrils of true anxiety crept into his stomach as the rope was pulled taut, lifting his arms behind his back so he was thrown off balance, barely finding purchase on the concrete floor with his toes.

The first blow came as a surprise; he hadn't seen the officer grab the whip from its peg on the wall.

He felt the whip slice his flesh, smarting and raw, and he realized with dismay; this was only the first of many to come. It would go on for as long as the officer wanted, and he could do absolutely nothing to prevent it, nor to mitigate it. No help would come. The illusion started to crack—the illusion that this had anything to do with him beyond receiving the blows upon his flesh. He was not allowing anything to happen to him; his permission was not necessary, was completely irrelevant. He was a mere object, acted upon, but exerting no will of its own. There was no contract, there was no negotiation. There were not even the prerequisite two entities to be party to the agreement, for he was reduced to a non-entity. His will was utterly negated. All that mattered was the will—even the simple whim—of the officer.

He received the blows on his bare back, struggling not to bellow like an animal. But what more was he than an animal, bound as he was, voiceless as he was?

Through the pain clouding his mind, he tried to focus. This was bearable. It was not the worst punishment possible, not by far. He had heard of so much worse than lashes across the back. It hurt; oh God it hurt and he couldn't keep every whimper and scream to himself, but he was alive, wasn't he? He wasn't dying, not yet. He could survive this. It had to end at some point.

He clung to those thoughts as the whip bit into his flesh without mercy, as the blood ran down his back and soaked into his trousers.

And finally, the Obersturmfürher put the whip down.

But he had no time to be relieved. The rope lifting his arms tightened; with a panicked yelp he tried to find the ground with his toes, but could no longer reach it. As he was hoisted higher, any remainder of the illusion of himself as a unified, potent being shattered.

He'd been sheltered, these last few months, in the far more humane prison of the Obersturmführer's house, and had allowed himself to feel almost human again. It was amazing what a little good food, work that didn't wear him to the bone, and relative safety from the blows of the Kapo or the SS-men did. He'd allowed himself to remember fanciful ideas of politics, philosophy, and history that he had held before his time in the triangle, but for which he had had no use since setting foot inside of it. And now he was reminded what a fleeting dream it had all been, the dream of thinking and speaking like a free man—still in the uniform, but with a transcendent soul that could and would break free of its shackles one day—simply because one man in the black uniform with eyes like cold stars decided to humor him with occasional meaningless games of verbal cat and mouse.

He was still subject to the rule of the triangle.

He had forgotten where he was, but now he remembered. And he knew he wasn't going anywhere.

That was the last, desperate and regretful thought that flashed through his mind before every ounce of his consciousness was concentrated in one area of his being: his shoulder joints.

He strained to hold himself in an oblique position, to keep his own weight from pulling down and overextending his shoulders, but already within the first few seconds every muscle in his body was on fire with the effort. He couldn't think, he couldn't hear, he couldn't see, he could barely breathe. There was nothing to hold onto, no relief or support. He trembled and gasped, clutching desperately at the edge of the cliff, but he was slipping, he was slipping—

And then he dropped into the chasm.

At first he didn't hear his own scream; the sickening crack of his shoulders as the bones popped free from their sockets echoed harshly in his skull. Pain consumed him. It was all he knew; it was all he was.

He dangled, like a twisted marionette, from his dislocated arms, and he did not know who he was.

He had never existed so fully within his physical self as he now did, essence distilled to agony manifest in flesh. And nothing more existed beyond the flesh: no thought, no emotion, no soul. No mediation existed between his component parts. They shattered apart and merged together in pre-sentient chaos. He disintegrated.

Voice and body were one. Flesh and pain were one. Being and death were one.

Body. Pain. Death.

The three pillars of non-existence.

He succumbed to the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appellplatz–the central area of camp where roll call took place.
> 
> Obersturmführer Beilschmidt's speech–a lot of it is based on Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morals (if you want to know more, the Wikipedia article is a pretty clear and concise summary of the theories laid out in the work), though to be fair to Nietzsche I have to say that his words are being somewhat twisted, as they often were by the Nazis. So in other words even though I'm borrowing from Nietzsche, Ob. Beilschmidt's views =/= Nietzsche's views.
> 
> Sapere aude– "daring to know." The phrase originated with the ancient Roman poet Horace but was later taken up as the unofficial motto of the Enlightenment, most famously used by Prussian philosopher Immanuel Kant in his essay "What is Enlightenment?"
> 
> Party rally in Weimar–you're probably familiar with images of fanatical Nazi rallies with military parades and masses of people saluting Sieg Heil. The town of Weimar was apparently one of Hitler's favorites for it's Germanic character and cultural history. Tbh I don't remember where I was reading about this, but I think I remember that he had big plans for the town, since it was also conveniently located approximately in the middle of the country.
> 
> The men in the Schuhläuferkommando/triangle of your own–most of the prisoners in the Schuhläuferkommando were pink triangle prisoners, that is homosexuals. So Weill is referring to the Obersturmführer's sexual predilections and suggesting he should be wearing a pink triangle too (in case that wasn't clear)
> 
> I owe a lot of the last section to Jean Amery's "At the Mind's Limits" in which he recounts his own experience of strappado (the form of torture Weill is subjected to here) at the hands of the Nazis. It's a fascinating article on the life of the intellectual in the concentration camp so I highly suggest it if you're into that sort of thing.


	4. Chapter 4

_October, 1944_

"Are you a God-fearing man, Weill?"

He stiffened at being addressed. The officer usually took his evening meal in silence, save for the Wagner or Beethoven floating in from the living room turntable.

"Not especially, sir."

"Were you not given a Protestant upbringing?"

"I was, sir.

"But you have rejected it."

"More or less, sir."

"So. An agnostic. But not a committed atheist. Neither Christian nor Marxist; tell me, Weill, what do you believe in?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "If you're asking about ideology, sir, I suppose I can't claim one. As I said before, I believe Social Democracy to be the best system of governance at humanity's disposal for the time being, but it hardly counts as a system of belief comparable to Christianity or Marxism."

The officer chewed his steak deliberately. "Do you mean to say you believe in nothing?"

He had the sensation of being stretched taut in his chest, full of words ready to spill out—but they were stopped up by a stubborn plug. Despite being on tenterhooks of articulation, his mind was completely blank.

What did he believe in?

Any answer he could think of pertained only to himself before the triangle. The scientific process, art, the humanities: humanity itself. Did he believe in any of them any more? What was there to believe in? These things existed, yes, and perhaps in some distant world they were even good; but they were not more than themselves. They did nothing for him here.

For the past five years, every time he expected a fleeting moment of transcendence through the memory of a poem or a scientific theory, every time he tried to glean a deeper understanding of the human condition or experience the metaphysical unity of those who suffered—he was left empty, unaltered.

Remembering Schopenhauer, remembering Planck, remembering Goethe and Brahms; it was useless to him from the day he set foot in the triangle. It brought him nothing. Did nothing to change the empty ache of his stomach and his shoulders, the bitter chill of the wind, the fact that today, or tomorrow, or the day after, his existence might be snuffed out by an SS-man's bullet, by the Kapo's heavy baton, by the invisible, inexorable spread of disease and infection, wasting away on an infirmary bed.

Something between amusement and scorn played in the officer's blue eyes for a moment. They had him caught.

"What, don't tell me you consider yourself better than your pious and radical fellows because of your undefiled intellectual skepticism?"

"On the contrary, sir. I envy them."

He remembered the words of a woman he had loved, long ago.

We have entered the final phase of Capitalism; the slaughterhouse of fascism was inevitable. But from the blood of the martyred will rise a New Order: the Tomorrow of the people! That, too, is inevitable.

And he remembered the words of a young Polish priest who stole him extra crusts of bread and spoke to him in a mix of Latin and broken German.

We become like Christ through our suffering. The more we suffer, the more we become like Him; and Tomorrow we shall receive eternal life through Him.

"They both have confidence in a Tomorrow to come, after their own sorts."

"And you don't?" A smirk curled the officer's lips. "Well, I'll give the intellectual credit for one thing; he is easier to reeducate than the fanatic. He can be reasoned with, at least."

His cheeks burned. "It has nothing to do with Reason, sir. Reason has no meaning here; it provides no basis for argument. Once, I believed in Reason, but now I have seen the death of Reason."

Fine brows rose over chill blue eyes. "And even in the face of Reason's death, you do not turn to God?"

"God had to die before Reason did."

The gleam of a pointy grin. "Ah, yes. God is dead, and we have killed him. Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?"

…

_January, 1945_

He awoke like the pearl diver coming up for air, reaching towards consciousness from the depths before finally resurfacing with a low roar in his ears.

And then there was pain.

At first his mind was filled only with the screaming of his shoulders; it threatened to become shriller still with even the tiniest movement. He listened; then strenuously he pushed it into the background just far enough to focus on his surroundings.

He realized he was lying down, more or less. In a moving vehicle, apparently. Immediately the jostling made him nauseous. He was sweating, he felt feverish. He became aware of the deep burn of the wounds on his back. He glanced down and saw a bandage wrapped haphazardly around his torso.

Something combed through his hair, not ungently. A warm, heavy hand.

"You're awake. Pity for you. It's going to hurt."

What exactly was going to hurt was not specified. But everything already hurt.

His head, though, was somewhat cushioned—and he realized with a start that it was lying in the officer's lap.

He attempted a response, but the outcome was a pitiful whimper.

The Obersturmführer clucked his tongue. "Don't bother speaking just yet."

The vehicle stopped moving. The officer pulled him out of the backseat, accompanied by several piercing protests any time one of his arms was moved. But no matter how much noise he made, the officer was determined to carry him inside the house, up the stairs, and to the bed, where he was deposited unceremoniously amid several more shrieks.

"I would tell you to stop being such a baby, but I've heard a dislocated shoulder is one of the more painful bone injuries one can sustain. I might believe it from listening to you."

All he could do was sob.

The officer manipulated the arm that was nearest the edge of the bed so that his elbow was against his side, then lifted his forearm at a ninety degree angle.

"Now hold still."

He tried not to scream as his arm was slowly rotated, first one way, then the other; but the occasional spasms of his shoulder muscles made it impossible to keep quiet. Finally, with a sickeningly fleshy "clunk," he felt his shoulder pop back into place.

He was lifted and turned around so the same could be repeated with his other arm.

By the time it was finished he felt sure he would vomit.

The officer turned him onto his stomach with his arms at his sides.

"Do not move your arms."

He heard footsteps go into the bathroom.

He waited, feeling nothing but relief that the worst was finally over. He still hurt, but now he could choose to focus on the softness of the mattress, the smoothness of the bedcovers against his cheek, the cool air against his exposed back.

The officer returned and set about silently undoing his bandages to clean the wounds.

The stinging made him hiss, but it was nothing compared to before. He could survive anything, if he had survived that, he felt sure.

He was rebandaged, both arms put in slings with the strict warning not to use them, and then, to his surprise, he was arranged comfortably in the bed, propped up against some cushions.

And then the officer left.

He was in a daze; he could barely process it all. One, that he was still alive. Two, that the Obersturmführer had brought him back here and tended to his injuries rather than abandoning him to the infirmary. Three, that he was now in Obersturmführer Beilschmidt's bed.

His eyes wandered around the room. He couldn't quite believe that it was real. Not just the Obersturmführer's bedroom, bizarre as it was to be left there as if it were his own—but any of it. The other rooms of the house. The world just on the other side of the walls. Even the camp felt oddly distant.

I survived. Who knew it was possible to be in such pain and not die? Who knew such pain would not end one's being?

Or maybe it did. Maybe I did die. Am I returned from the dead? Am I the same man I was before?

He could still open and close his eyes. He could still move his mouth, stick out his tongue. Wiggle his toes. He supposed he could theoretically move his arms, but he'd been told not to. He was breathing. His heart was beating.

My body. Still me.

Or some version thereof.

He thought of nothing for a moment, simply felt with astonishment the very presence of his body from head to foot.

He did that to me.

He made me feel that—that not-feeling. He made me disappear, he wiped me out of existence.

And then he brought me back.

He had lived for five years in this perverted world, and yet he had never experienced the actualized inversion of reality; or, what he had taken reality to be up until that point.

He breathed the air, he felt the texture and warmth of blankets, he saw the details of dark wooden furniture exactly as they had been before—and yet, the world did not seem the same. It did not seem his own anymore. It did not belong to him; he did not belong to it. He could no longer assume his own consciousness to be the anchor of reality, not when he could be so completely displaced, overwhelmed, destroyed by an other entity. The other. The antiman—the true gravitational center of the universe.

A god.

He's not a god. He's just a man, like me or any other.

Not like me. The opposite and negation of me.

What is a man, after all, who can annihilate and restore, who possesses the power of life and death, but a god? Even if only in relation to me.

An ugly flame of self-loathing licked at his gut.

He may be only human, and yet he is still a god, and I a mere mortal at his feet. The strong and the weak. I cannot deny his sovereignty.

And he could not deny that he felt also a begrudging admiration and awe for such power. For true authority—not that which is given through bureaucracy and denoted by titles, but that which is sensed instinctively—only belonged to those who deserved it, in the end, didn't it? And how could he not respect that which was rightly earned?

The fire grew, and burned him from within.

…

_January, 1946_

The figure was small, drawn in on itself. Huddled against the wall of the barrack for shelter. With its head covered with the thin gray blanket, it could almost be mistaken for a sack of potatoes.

He approached and sat down next to it, the steaming bowl in his hand making his belly rumble. He offered it to the figure.

"Here."

Watery blue eyes peeked out from under the blanket.

"Where did you get that."

"The kitchens."

"Funny, I thought you were going to say it simply starting raining stew from the sky." A weak smile curved thin lips. "You know what I mean. How."

"Thought you knew by now it's best not to ask. Go on, eat before someone else tries to take it."

"Hm." Bony hands reached out for the bowl and spoon. They shook violently as the spoon was brought to the mouth, nearly losing a chunk of undercooked root vegetable.

"Here." He eased the spoon from the loose grip and took back the bowl, carefully lifting the spoonful to chapped lips.

After a few grateful bites the lips refused to open again.

"You shouldn't waste this on me."

He snorted. "How am I wasting it. We're both getting skinnier by the day, but if I can score us some extra soup every once in a while we might just manage, halved rations or no."

He lifted another spoonful, but the lips wouldn't budge. He sighed.

"You need to eat if you're going to get better."

"Maybe I'm not supposed to get better."

With an angry growl he set the bowl down. "Well if that's your attitude. I've survived this camp for six years, don't think for a second I'm giving up now. But if you can't even make it through one—" He broke off in frustration. He wasn't sure why he was so angry. It felt like a personal betrayal, a broken promise. It buzzed under his skin.

"Ungrateful coward," he muttered. He picked the bowl back up and shoved the spoon at the other's face. "Eat. Because I'm not going to. I went to a lot of trouble to get this and I'll be really pissed if some other bastard takes advantage of my hard work."

With a weary gaze, the other man opened his mouth again.

…

_January, 1945_

Helpless. As utterly helpless and vulnerable as a baby. That was what he had become: a mere child under the care-and therefore the control-of the officer. It was not something he relished.

He had always been under the control of the officer, technically. And yet now, without the use of either arm, he was at the man's mercy in a far more immediate and intimate way than even before.

His humiliation was swift and complete.

The officer brought him soup, and carefully lifted each spoonful to his lips, with the single command, "eat." He wished he could refuse, simply for the sake of not submitting himself to the patronizing treatment, but neither the ravenous hunger in in his belly nor the cool, impassive eyes staring him down would allow it. He felt he was in some perverse play as he swallowed down the hot broth-thicker and decidedly more flavorful than the watery stuff they served in the camp-with himself in the role of invalid child and the Obersturmführer playing the maternal part with a disconcertingly stiff manner.

But the worst came after. Unable as he was to use either arm, Obersturmführer Beilschmidt insisted-with minimal use of both verbal and physical commands-on accompanying him to the restroom as well. The detached, clinical attitude and touch of the officer was almost more than he could bear, but he could not deny that he needed the help. He felt like little more than a rigid mannequin in a shop window being pushed about by a being that dwarfed his own.

He was too ashamed to look at the Obersturmführer, let alone offer any resistance or protest.

It was oddly draining to be so entirely at the mercy of another. It was as though his mind, his very spirit, had swiftly grown accustomed to disuse and could no longer rouse themselves to any potent thought or desire. It was such that, that night, he barely reacted when the Obersturmführer climbed into the bed next to him, leaving a good foot of space between their bodies. It was all he could do to bring himself to ask, "What about morning Appell, sir?"

"Don't worry about that. You're to be a live-in servant from now on. I'm responsible for keeping track of you."

"...I'm not going back to the camp?"

"Only if your work for me requires it."

He didn't ask the question burning in his mind. He was too tired, and he wasn't sure he wanted the answer just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schopenhauer, Planck, Goethe, and Brahms: all famous Germans; a philosopher, quantum physicist, writer, and composer, respectively. Look them up if you are curious.
> 
> "God is dead" comes from Nietzsche, as you probably know. Beilschmidt is quoting from "The Madman" at the end of that section.
> 
> Again a lot of philosophical/inspirational credit goes to Jean Amery.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Please read! Here's where the sexual content really comes in, though I promise it's not just porn. Non-explicit sexual content, dub-con and non-con elements, mention of rape, debatable attempted rape. Violence and coercion. Some of the sexual stuff it is fairly consensual though-at least as much as possible in the characters' circumstances.

_January, 1945_

"Why?"

Blue flicked to his face, found his gaze. An eyebrow arched.

"Why what?"

He wet his lips.

"Why are you doing this? Keeping me here instead of in the infirmary. I can't do my work. I'm useless to you. Sir."

It had been nearly a week. Nearly a week of being spoon-fed and helped in the restroom and staying in the officer's bed nearly twenty-four hours a day, including when the Obersturmführer went to sleep—inches away, never touching.

Even if Obersturmfürher Beilschmidt's superiors knew he was now under the officer's direct supervision, he was sure they knew nothing of the sleeping arrangements.

Six days of this, being treated as and reduced to a child—no, something more helpless than a child, for even a child could make demands. A child knew what it wanted and pursued it doggedly. A child was not afraid to ask questions. And yet it had taken this long for him to ask the question that had been pounding in his skull since the moment he resurfaced from the void.

The officer stilled, poised on the stool next to the bathtub and holding the washcloth just above the shallow water in which the patient sat. The cold eyes were carefully focused on the placid surface of the water.

And then the cloth moved again to swipe languidly across an exposed chest and shoulder.

"You're quite wrong, if that's what you think."

The cloth rubbing over his skin was lukewarm only, but it burned him, like ice searing his skin. His arms were still bound before him, and he was forced to sit motionless, exposed, at the bottom of the tub, the water that barely rose above his hips providing no protection or modesty.

It was perverse. Actions that outside the triangle would be signals of love, tenderness, care, became acts of violence here. Though he had never seen an SS-man act towards a prisoner as the officer did towards him, this mockery of affection was just another form of punishment. The torture continued, not bound to the confines of the penal block where he had been shattered apart, not even confined by the walls of the camp itself. It was the same, really, only without the physical pain. Symbolically, intellectually, it was the same. The Obersturmführer played God, the doppelgänger that meant his death. He was subsumed into him, existing only as the thing that the officer bathed and fed and dressed.

Was that why? Objectively, there was no reason the officer should dedicate so much time to what, to an outsider, one not of the triangle, would seem to be nursing him back to health. But he knew better. And he knew there was no such thing as objectivity here.

It was simply another way for the officer to assert himself. Expand himself. Conquer and consume, much as his Reich had done to the map of Europe itself. (But not anymore, he had heard. Already they were evacuating the camps in Poland, he had heard. The Thousand-Year Reich was collapsing in on itself—but what did that matter, here in this bathroom, where he and the officer were the entire world?)

Perhaps he asked because he would rather be in the infirmary. Just to be assured that a world still existed beyond this house—even if it were only the camp. But that made no sense. It would be suicide. The infirmary was the waiting room to death.

He needed to hear it from the Obersturmführer's mouth. He needed an explanation, anything to grasp onto that allowed for his own existence, no matter how insignificant.

"Wrong? How so?"

What did the officer need him for, other than to leech him dry of life and will?

Cool, steady eyes. He couldn't breathe.

"Can't you guess?"

He couldn't look away, but was saved from the effort when he was gently tugged forward so his back could be reached. His face was pressed into the Obersturmführer's shoulder—smooth black shirt like snakeskin, heady scent filling his nose and throat. The washcloth dabbed delicately at the closing welts on his back.

Can't you guess?

He couldn't breathe. The cologne was clogging his lungs and stifling his brain, thick and sleepy. A fever shivered over his skin as the cloth dragged along his spine.

Can't you guess?

He didn't want to guess. It hurt too much to think about it, about anything. The rubbing along the small of his back was lulling him, or incapacitating him.

It was very smooth. Too wonderfully smooth as it traced over his hip—when had the burning stopped? Or had he simply grown accustomed to it?

Or had he come to crave it. His own punishment.

The touch was light on his hip. Fingers, not cloth. That was the sensation of skin. Calloused and rough against his softness. Perhaps he should have been unnerved by that. But he was too tired.

Until he felt them wrap around his member.

His head shot up as he tried to pull away, but the officer was stronger. He was trapped by the walls of the bathtub and a hand holding his head in place against the broad shoulder. His arms twitched, threatening to come out of their slings.

"Careful of your shoulders." Obersturmführer Beilschmidt's voice was low and calm, warm against the shell of his ear in a way that made his skin prickle and his stomach lurch. The simple words, the matter-of-fact tone of voice; they broke him.

He gave a strangled sob as the calloused fingers moved over him, like sandpaper against the sensitive skin. His eyes, nose, mouth left wet marks on the slippery smooth cloth in which his face was buried, as if he could hide there, burrowed into a strong, warm shoulder. The shoulder seemed to belong to a separate entity altogether than the hand that was working him so torturously slowly.

"Shh, shhh." He could hear the rumble like thunder in the officer's chest. The man patted his head comfortingly, as though what the other hand was doing was simply some necessary unpleasantness to bear through.

And he let himself sink into it. Into the shoulder, into the soft hushes, into the fingers carding through his hair. Into the fingers stroking him, rough-smooth torture and bliss. He was reduced to a quivering, wet mess, hitching breaths and barely-voiced sighs muffled against the Obersturmführer's chest.

He could hear a heartbeat. Elevated, but not racing. Almost in time with the precise, efficient movements of the hand. He tried to count the beats, but he lost track near fifty as the white heat in his gut tightened, leaving no room for ordered thought. He tensed, the officer's firm grip holding him in place though his irregular spasms, until finally he convulsed, forehead pressing hard into a collarbone as electricity jolted and stuttered through his entire body.

In the moment of uncanny, vacant stillness that followed, he had a brief glimpse of clarity; he realized that the distillation of pure physicality, pure embodiment at the point of climax was sickeningly reminiscent of the ego-disintegration he had undergone strapped to that instrument of pain. A little death.

The Obersturmführer drew back, releasing him. He shuddered at the loss of warm contact in spite of himself.

…

_September, 1945_

"I was wondering when you'd come looking for me."

"Who says I was looking for you?"

The haughty face turned to him. "So, you came poking around in this shed for…" A perfunctory glance around. "…spare machinery parts?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I thought I would find spare uniforms. Mine's worn rather thin, see. But, my mistake."

"So then leave."

"I will."

He walked over to the other man and sat beside him on the worktable.

"I thought you said you were leaving." Skeptical voice and eyebrow.

"I will. Never said when."

"Hm."

They sat in silence. Dusty sunlight filtered through the slats of the thin wood walls and fell across them in bars.

"So, how does it feel?"

"What?" The same skepticism as ever, only now it sounded defensive, less condescending. Aware of its own performance and fragility.

"To be mortal."

…

_January, 1945_

The officer released his arms from the slings the next day.

He was sitting on the bed, watching the cloth being folded with exact movements of surprisingly nimble fingers.

"Have you learned your lesson?" The deep voice startled him.

He blinked; stared at the man. A lesson. What lesson? Not to provoke a man in the uniform? He had known that already, but had done it anyway. It seemed so long ago, so insignificant, what he had said. Obersturmführer Beilschmidt's sexual appetites aimed towards men. Aimed towards him. He had learned that, too.

"What lesson, sir?"

Dangerously cold eyes slid up to his face. He swallowed, continued.

"Do you mean that a man can be broken apart and still survive; is that it? Because that is what I learned. Sir."

The blue eyes were blank with disbelief.

He wet his dry lips with a nervous tongue; he laughed. "Surely you can't mean that I should never mention a certain subject, that speaking of it leads to pain. That would imply that punishment is the result of bad behavior. That for every action, there is an equal reaction, according to the laws of the universe. The laws don't apply here. They don't apply. What you call punishment is not punishment, because it is not allotted for punitive reasons. There is simply pain for the sake of pain. Torture is not a threat but a promise. If there is any governing law here, it is only that of sadism."

The officer took two steps to stand directly in front of him. His hair was yanked back in a harsh grip, forcing his face up to meet the dead stars of eyes.

"How is a creature like you still alive." A whisper. "How has no one put a gun to your head and blown your brains out." The expression in the eyes was akin to wonder and rage.

"It has something to do with luck, I would suspect, sir." The position of his neck strained his voice.

"I could do it right now. Maybe your luck's run out." A finger pointed, directing his gaze to the side. "There is my holster and my gun. Shall I fetch it?"

His skin crawled, his stomach twisted. "It might make quite a mess, sir."

"I could take you outside to shoot you. To the Appellplatz, perhaps, make an example of you."

He was caught in the officer's gaze. The cold stars did not seem strange nor far. They were near and full of freezing flame.

"You could," he whispered. There was no arguing. He thought of the stories he'd heard, people obediently digging their own graves before being shot into them, waiting patiently in line for their own execution. He had hoped never to understand that, but he did now. All too well.

"I could."

They were still. The moments stretched to hours, an eternity. Until finally the officer spoke.

"Don't try me, Weill."

With a final tug of the hair he was released.

…

Soon he was back to work. Typing didn't put too much strain on his shoulders, so the Obersturmführer allowed it. Cooking as well, as long as he didn't exert himself too much.

It was the same, and yet it was changed. The reports, the meals, the massages at the end of the day. Obersturmführer Beilschmidt gave the orders, he followed them.

But at night. At night he entered a lion's den.

He slept by the officer's side as before; inches away, cushion of space between them carefully preserved. Until one night he felt the officer breach that space, reach for him under the cover of darkness.

The touch was feather-light, merely grazing the fine hairs of his neck, not even touching the skin. He couldn't help the way he convulsed at the sensation.

He did not turn to look at the other man. Not even when he felt the weight shift on the bed and a large, warm mass draw near.

Muffled by covers, in the darkness of the room, none of it struck him as real. The feel of dry lips pressed to the pulse under his jaw was like a dream; the hand skimming along his bare stomach was a dream.

It was not like it had been in the bathtub. That had felt clinical, almost. Like a procedure, cold and calculated. This was all warmth and softness—so much so he felt lost in it. The tongue, tracing along his neck and ear as he shivered; the touch that gently ventured under the band of his pants.

He let the officer pull him closer, turn him so they were nearly facing. Manipulate his limbs and guide his hand down to the officer's own arousal, show his fingers what to do there. He let the officer do these things, bending as the tree to the wind, and he did not break.

He did not break when he felt fingers at his lips, pressing and feeling as they had so many weeks ago when they had choked him; but they did not choke him now, even when they slipped inside. Merely pet the softness of his tongue, felt its hollow indent. The officer's breath was heavy in his ear.

He did not break when the Obersturmführer's hand closed around his own on the foreign member and demanded completion; he did not break when he felt the tremors shake the larger body, fingers clenching inside and around his mouth. He did not even break when the officer turned his attention to him and finished him quickly with a steady hand and a mouth on his neck.

He lay quivering for a long while after the Obersturmführer had turned away and slipped into sleep, but he knew he was not broken, because a dream could not harm him.

…

When Obersturmführer Beilschmidt made him clean the sheets the next day, he knew it was no dream.

…

_February, 1945_

The nocturnal encounters became nearly a matter of course. Obersturmfürhrer Beilschmidt no longer hesitated to reach for him, touch him more firmly. His own hands quickly learned what to do, and did it without asking.

To say he looked forward to it would be too much. But he anticipated. It set his teeth on edge, the waiting. Like the beachgoer who sees the wave coming from miles off but is unable to move, can only wait in dread until it is almost sweet relief when it finally crashes over them, drowns them. And he did drown, every night, in the horribly wonderful sensations that swooped through him at the officer's touch.

During the day everything continued as normal. The work was the same. The officer gave orders, he obeyed them. There was no mention, not even an insinuation, of what they would do when night fell.

That changed one evening when he was removing the officer's boots. Hands on either side of his face pulled him forward between spread legs in a gentler mirroring of the officer's drunken actions on the night of the party. The heavy hand on his head and the shameless bulge in front of his nose made it clear what was wanted. He felt as though his internal organs were twisted around his spine like garlands about a Maypole.

The belt buckle was undone, the front of the pants opened. He turned his head away.

It's so much more real here, now. Not covered by darkness or a duvet. Practically indecent. It's not fair. I can't do that.

"Weill." The voice was low, laden with expectation.

Against his better judgment, he looked up.

It was the eyes that compelled him to do it—that's what he told himself. The Obersturmführer didn't even have to push. He couldn't disobey those eyes.

The taste was thick on his tongue, but it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He could keep this up, if the officer didn't try to choke like he had before with his fingers.

The hand on his head guided him. He kept his eyes fixed upward, locked on blue.

And then a strange thing happened.

He had never seen the officer's face before; not like this, not when they were in the darkened bedroom. But now, for the first time, he saw the affect he had on the other man. And now, for the first time, he was not controlled by the eyes that gazed at him so hungrily.

They were distant, lost, wavering between furious need and awe. They had no power over him. He was the one who determined their expression, the fluttering of the shutters that occasionally blocked the stars from sight.

The ice melted. It could not hold its form. Overcome by the lapping waves, it became one with the sea, adrift and dissolved.

He had done that. He had thawed the frost.

When it was all over (briny bitterness in his mouth as a testament) the ice froze over again, almost immediately—but after that he didn't mind it so much whenever his head was tugged to the officer's crotch.

…

Obersturmführer Beilschmidt's grip was harsh on his hips. Fingers kneaded roughly into his thighs and backside, hard enough to leave bruises that would stand out stark and purple for the next week or two. The officer rubbed against him haphazardly, demandingly, pushing him into the mattress. Teeth clamped down, marking his neck.

Third time tonight. That's going to be hell to keep covered. Not that anyone else will see them. He'll gloat over it though, in his own silent way. He's noticed he's slipping. Overcompensation.

Suddenly his scalp was being stabbed with a million tiny needles as his hair was grasped and twisted, hard. His face was shoved down into the mattress so he couldn't breathe.

Then he felt it. The sharp burn of a push that shouldn't be there, against his backside.

He would have gasped if he'd been able to draw breath. He squirmed away, stomach a mess of panicked somersaults.

"Hold still." A grunt through clenched teeth.

He pushed away groping hands. "No." He was surprised by the firmness of his own voice; it sounded far bolder than he felt, trapped as he was under a hard, wide body.

The hands stilled. The officer lifted himself to look down at him.

"What did you say?" A whisper.

"No." This time the tremble was audible, but his voice was just as loud as before.

Without seeing it happen, his wrists were caught and pinned to the bed, nails biting into his skin so hard he knew there would be little crescents visible there for several days.

A low growl rumbled from the officer's chest. "You forget that I can still punish you in ways—"

"I know why you want to hurt me!"

He blurted it out before he knew what he was saying. Maybe it wouldn't help, but at least it made the Obersturmführer pause.

He wet his lips, wishing he could make out the other man's features better in the darkness. He continued, saying the first thing that came to mind, just to keep the beast at bay.

"I know why my very existence agitates you so much."

The officer's breath was heavy on his face.

"You envy me."

A bark of laughter escaped; fingers tightened to bruising.

"I? Envy you?"

"Yes." His head felt floaty: the light-headedness of courting danger. "You envy my humanity."

The officer didn't respond, but there was a pause in the perpetual in-out of the hot, moist breath.

"You cannot be like me," he whispered. "Not a man, but internally transformed into a man-like creature by blind fanaticism and the delusion of invincibility. You cannot be like me, as long as you are that. So you seek to control me."

Spurred on by the Obersturmführer's silence and the sick giddiness in his own gut, he continued; "That's your weakness. I'm you're weakness. You want me. You want but you don't know how to have and to hold. You know only conquest and destruction. The emptiness of everything you believe in reveals itself. Here is where you run up against the limitations of ultimate power, where your supposed godly omnipotence runs out. You want to be human, but you cannot be as long as you play at being God."

No sooner had he spit the last word off his tongue than he felt the resounding smack slice across his cheek. His whole face smarted.

"God? I'll show you a god!"

The officer attempted to flip him onto his stomach, but he twisted his arms away and lunged to the side, nearly making it off the bed before he was pinned, arms like a vice around his legs.

He kicked with all his might; it landed squarely in the Obersturmführer's chest. The vice opened with a grunt; he rolled and fell to the floor.

"Given the choice to be a god, what fool would choose humanity?" The voice seethed behind him.

He made to stand, but a hand snagged his ankle. He came crashing down once more.

His lungs refused to expand as he lay aching on the carpet. The officer slithered off the bed and landed on top of him; he tried to writhe away but it was no use. He was straddled, hands around his throat.

"You insolent fool! Who do you think you are, compared to me? You are nothing! Nothing!"

The hands shook his neck so his head banged against the floor.

"You have no right to refuse me! You've been lucky—I've been gentle. But I don't need to be. I can do whatever I want to you. Where would you run? Who would you run to?"

He scratched desperately at the hands that began pressing down on his windpipe. His nails dug deep into the skin, enough to draw blood.

With a hiss of pain Obersturmführer Beilschmidt pulled back.

"You could!" He coughed, raised his hands against further attack; the Obersturmführer loomed over him.

"You're right, you could do whatever you want to me." His was voice hoarse, soft now. He felt so tired, suddenly. "You could rape me. Right here, right now, and as often as you like after that. I couldn't stop you. No one would care or intervene." He let the truth of those words sink in, for the officer and himself. He felt very small, and very alone.

"Maybe they'd never even find out," he whispered. "No one would even know what you did to me. Except me, of course. And you."

The room was silent as death, save the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He no longer had the energy to fight what came next.

But nothing happened. Obersturmführer Beilschmidt rose slowly to his feet, and walked out the door.

The carpet was scratchy on his bare back, but he didn't move. He lay shaking from cold and adrenaline. A laugh bubbled up to his lips, unbidden. And then another, and another, hysterical and hyena-like. Almost indistinguishable from crying; he only lacked the tears.

It was a long time before he gathered the strength to crawl back in bed. He burrowed under the warm duvet that smelled so strongly of the officer, and fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A little death," or in French "la petite mort," as it is often called, is an idiom for orgasm that was especially popular in the Renaissance. It can be used in non-sexual contexts as well, simply to describe "dying a little inside."
> 
> The idea of an "internally transformed" fascist "man-like creature" comes from Vasily Grossman's monumental work "Life and Fate," which was inspiration for parts of this chapter.


End file.
